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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096959">A Taste of the Stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HC_Weatherfield/pseuds/HC_Weatherfield'>HC_Weatherfield</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Celery Fields (An Ineffable Wives!verse) [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ancient Greece, British Museum, Crowley can stew, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Hypatia of Alexandria, Ineffable Wives, because this is a gay story and we all have those, but the hurt is like two thousand years old, traumatic experiences with Christianity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:55:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,884</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096959</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HC_Weatherfield/pseuds/HC_Weatherfield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley doesn't like archaeology, and a visit to the British Museum shows Aziraphale why.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Hypatia of Alexandria</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Celery Fields (An Ineffable Wives!verse) [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1469984</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Taste of the Stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>On the off-chance you haven't heard of Hypatia of Alexandria, welcome to sweet torment. She was the first female professor at the university in Alexandria, as well as its last-ever professor. The famous burning of the Library of Alexandria was actually the result of a riot that began when a Christian mob pulled Hypatia from her chariot and gruesomely tortured her to death. They did this not because she had any one radical idea, but because she was a respected pagan intellectual and a kind of figurehead of the cultural milieu they opposed.</p><p>Actual historical sources on Hypatia are fairly thin (hence my use of the gay-until-proven-otherwise device here). I discovered her through a particularly moving passage in the introduction to Stephen Greenblatt's 'The Swerve,' and a little further exploration yielded the excellent novel 'Azazeel' by Youssef Ziedan and the mediocre biopic 'Agora,' in which Rachel Weisz is pretty hot, for further study. Those, along with some hardcore Wikipedia skimming, are my sources. Try to forgive me.</p><p>I made up the wine bowl. A similar artifact might exist somewhere, but if it does, that is a coincidence. Promise.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley didn’t come to the British Museum if she could help it; she loved art, but archaeology was something entirely Else. Just the bones of human lives she’d passed through, sometimes literally. It depressed her. But Aziraphale was in one of her sentimental moods, and Crowley could hardly deny her angel. Besides, Promises had been made as to what they would get up to later if Crowley was a good girl.</p><p>For Aziraphale it was a stroll down memory lane, but for Crowley it was death by a thousand cuts. Then, amongst Greek and Egyptian artifacts from the early centuries CE, the jugular: a bronze wine bowl engraved with a pattern of the stars.</p><p>
  <em>Crowley tasted wine, thin in those days, watered and honeyed to disguise the shortcomings of ancient modes of preservation. She felt the linen falling against her breasts and hips, light but never as fine as it had been in the days of the pharaohs. She heard deep, rich laughter. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Such strange things you say of the stars, Antonia. You speak as if you have walked amongst them.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Perhaps I have,” said Crowley coyly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“If any creature living could achieve such a thing,” said the Professor—and there was a touch of wistfulness in her voice—“I’m sure it would be you, so alien and flame-touched.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are as charming as they say,” Crowley responded, tone dry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Give me leave to prove that further, and I shall.” Her dark eyes sparkled, full of promise. </em>
</p><p>“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, concerned. “You’ve been here a while.”</p><p>And she had—she couldn’t say how long. But now, she couldn’t be here any longer, in this brightly lit room, with this bowl that had gleamed in low torchlight.</p><p>“I have to go,” she said, and before Aziraphale could respond, she was halfway to the lobby.</p><p>***</p><p>It had been the only thing to take her mind off Aziraphale for centuries. Crowley would sit in Hypatia’s lectures, drinking in the fervency with which she laid out the mysteries of the universe. It didn’t matter whether she got things right, at least not to Crowley--though she did often feel a pleasant jolt of pride when she was on the right track. What mattered was the way she lit up from within, as though she had swallowed a star.</p><p>Hypatia was a mature woman, on the verge of becoming old by the standards of the time. Her jaw and cheekbones were ponderous, nose prominent, eyebrows stern; it was her starlight that made her beautiful, refusing to be contained, glinting in her eyes and glowing in her cheeks. Crowley loved to watch her glimmer, loved to see her brighten with the contrast as day turned to night, loved to go home with her after an evening’s gathering and minister to her until she shone.</p><p>What Crowley experienced in that time was, she supposed, close to holy. It brought her so, so near to thanking God for the wonders of Her creation. Then there had come a day that reminded Crowley why she had Fallen, to begin with. Reminded her of the cruelty of which this luscious Earth, these denizens of its paradise, were capable. The Christian mob came, tore apart the city of scholars and set fire to all its wonders. The Library burned.</p><p>But that was after.</p><p>Crowley had been riding with Hypatia when the mob came upon them, dragged the Professor from the cart, began to torment her. She rushed into the crowd, tried to appeal to them, tried to reach Hypatia. When that didn’t work, she reached out with her powers, trying to make them forget what they were doing and go away. Nothing worked. Her powers were for destruction, and destruction was what the mob was doing. Her magic was on the humans’ side, now, at the worst possible time.</p><p>Given some of the things she had managed later, after the advent of the Arrangement, Crowley wondered what really happened in that moment. Had she simply been too distraught to take effective action? Or had she really been incapable? Had her association with Aziraphale later expanded the scope of her miraculous powers?</p><p>It didn’t matter. What happened was: Crowley was useless. What happened was: the mob put Hypatia through things Crowley hadn’t witnessed in Hell. What happened was: Hypatia was consigned to the fire, and her star reddened, expanded, then collapsed, until all that was left was something heavy and blacker than night.</p><p>Whatever that was, Crowley still carried it. She’d knelt in the ashes of the Library, holding that weight in her core. Looking at all the ruined shelves, holding the remains of the work that had given such purpose to Hypatia and all her brother-scholars (for she was the only woman they had welcomed among them)--looking at these, she thought once more of Aziraphale.</p><p>The Angel had been so delighted by the invention of writing. The two of them had discussed the innovation over dishes of thick, pungent beer in Babylon--a drink Aziraphale loved for its novelty, Crowley for its bitterness.</p><p>“...<em>incredible</em>, dear girl. All the majesty of Creation, all the quirks of the human soul, recorded. It transcends their brief memory, outlasts their brief lives--gives them entirely <em>new</em> ways to think! Expansive, abstract things they never had space for when their whole minds were taken up with remembering. My darling girl, I can’t recommend it enough.”</p><p>How sad the Angel would be, if she were here, seeing this.</p><p>At the thought of Aziraphale, a swell of rage filled Crowley. She should be here, seeing what her work had wrought. Gadding about with martyrs and Church fathers, bolstering faith and giving coy answers to questions about the material realities of angelic corporation. Such <em>fun</em>. 'Such an explosion of faith and goodwill,' she had told Crowley over oysters, trying to comfort her following Yeshua’s death.</p><p>Yeshua, and now Hypatia. And before that, all those kids. Such wanton cruelty, needless loss--and there was Aziraphale traipsing about, babbling about Her expansive love and limitless goodness. Did she know what her good soldiers were doing when her back was turned? She had to. Angels were good at refusing to acknowledge the truth--Crowley had seen that firsthand--but they couldn’t help <em>knowing</em> it. One of God’s cruelest gifts, that--along with the rain, and justice.</p><p>Aziraphale had to know. Which meant she had let it happen. Crowley had failed, but she had <em>tried</em>. She had been present, had seen, would remember. And where was Aziraphale?</p><p>Crowley screamed then. She couldn’t help it; her corporation couldn’t hold in all the unfairness.</p><p>A demon’s rage is loud, louder than the human ear can comprehend, but a demon’s grief is silent. So Crowley’s cry fell somewhere in between, sounding fully human. It blended seamlessly into the noise of the smouldering city.</p><p>***</p><p>Aziraphale found Crowley slumped on the concrete floor of her Mayfair apartment, glaring at her plants and wallowing in stylish misery. The Angel rushed over to her and crouched at her side, hardly even minding the pleats of her Edwardian crinoline, so great was her haste.</p><p>“Are you quite all right, my love?”</p><p>“Nuh,” Crowley grunted.</p><p>“Do you want to talk about it?”</p><p>This question turned Crowley entirely nonverbal; she merely shook her head.</p><p>“I see,” said Aziraphale, and set to arranging her skirts so that they would not be crushed when she sat down next to Crowley, legs tucked beneath her. Once settled, she took Crowley’s hand in both of hers and placed it in her lap.</p><p>They sat that way, still and silent, until just after sunset.</p><p>“The wine bowl,” said Crowley when she was ready. “From Alexandria.”</p><p>“I <em>had</em> wondered,” said Aziraphale softly. “I thought...something very difficult must have happened. You never spoke of it.”</p><p>Crowley frowned. “You didn’t think I’d done it?”</p><p>Aziraphale gave her a sidelong look, full of both guilt and reproach, but mostly full of love. “Not your style at all, dear.”</p><p>“No,” said Crowley through a grimace, “it isn’t. Though, I didn’t think <em>you</em> knew that. At the time.”</p><p>“I.” Aziraphale paused. “I hope I did.”</p><p>“I get it, Angel. Really. We’ve been through it all. Forgiven each other. Haven’t we?”</p><p>“Of course,” said Aziraphale. “Only--what have <em>I</em> forgiven <em>you</em> for?”</p><p>Crowley pushed her sunglasses up, wiped tears from under her serpent’s eyes.</p><p>“Everything?” she offered.</p><p>“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale leaned in, placing her forehead against Crowley’s temple. “There was nothing to forgive you for. Only...fog, in my head, that I couldn’t quite see through.”</p><p>“Fog?” Crowley echoed.</p><p>“Yes. But it burned away, my love. Now I can see you.” Crowley let out a shuddering sigh and melted, landing with her head in Aziraphale’s lap. The Angel stroked her hair; Crowley sighed and, gradually, came to talk about Hypatia.</p><p>For hours, Aziraphale listened as Crowley unbraided her heart, describing the joy and pain of loving a mortal, her fury at yet another betrayal from the Almighty, who had always, always let her down--except lately, at the final hour.</p><p>“Incredible,” said Aziraphale at last. “<em>Incredible</em>, my love.”</p><p>“What is?” Crowley rasped.</p><p>“<em>You</em>.” Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s chin in her hand and bent to look her in the eye. “After everything, you still have faith.”</p><p>Crowley furrowed her brow. “Dangerous thing to say to a demon.”</p><p>“Well,” said the angel smugly, “they don’t call me Azira ‘Danger’ Fell for nothing.”</p><p>Crowley grabbed Aziraphale fast as a snake striking, rolled her onto her back, and promptly had her tongue down her throat. A quick but thorough ravishment was called for, and Crowley pursued it, tasting the backs of the little pearly teeth, swiftly unbuttoning to clear the way to the flesh overflowing the liberty bodice. Had the concrete not been so antiseptically spotless, the crisp white crinoline, pinned to the floor by an insinuating knee, might have been entirely defeated.</p><p>As it was: sudden start, sudden end. Crowley removed herself by a safe few inches’ distance and surveyed her work: all pink and white and disordered, looking just as an Angel should. A profiterole with too much cream, a wedding cake overeager with cherries. Crowley had, for some time following what happened to Hypatia, nursed a rather undemonly disgust for all things flesh. It was a soaring thing to know that Aziraphale had long since cured her of it.</p><p>Aziraphale sighed, wistful and loving.</p><p>“You have faith,” she whispered, “but I don’t.”</p><p>
  <em>“Does it interest you?” asked Crowley, tracing freckle constellations on her lover’s skin. “This war of the gods? As a philosopher, I mean.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hypatia thought for a moment, slyly watching Crowley explore her contours. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No,” she said at last, “I don’t believe it does. If there are gods, they don’t get in my way, and I hardly have the power to get in theirs. If they made the stars, I thank them; if they did not, then what good are they? They do not matter.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>So saying, she began to return Crowley’s attentions. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Dear, pensive Antonia. Let me show you what matters…” </em>
</p><p>“It doesn’t matter,” Crowley said to Aziraphale. “Didn’t save the world for faith, did we?”</p><p>Aziraphale frowned. “No,” she agreed at length.</p><p>“We did it for this,” said Crowley, and lost herself in Aziraphale until only the sweetest of memories dared to show themselves.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I want attention. Also, if there are any historical women you'd like to see either of our lady-shaped entities get frisky with, suggest them in the comments.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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